![]() I remember wanting to have kids ever since I was a kid. Okay, maybe not kids, per se, but babies. Cute, squishy, perfect little babies that I could tote around and care for all the day long. Oh, me. To be honest, I didn’t give much thought to everything that comes after that. You know, the other 17 years. When they threw my wailing and flailing first-born onto my chest, I felt more than the weight of his 8-pound body. I felt the weight of being responsible for another human being’s well-being. Fast-forward a handful of years and that wailing baby is now 9 years old, which puts him exactly halfway to leaving home. WHAT THE WHAT. And my middle is right behind him. Now I’m the one flailing. Lately, this is my internal dialogue: They barely know how to tie their shoes! They still need to learn how to ride their bikes without training wheels. Why are they not in an extracurricular activity? We can’t afford an extracurricular activity!! They need to learn an instrument, a sport, a skill… something! Recently, a couple of stressful months, paired with this unrelenting dialogue, left me overwhelmed, tired, and somewhat disillusioned by it all. As I packed for a weekend retreat, I was desperate for answers, guidance, and most of all—hope. God met me in that broken place. He reminded me of his tender care towards me, and my children. He began to open my eyes to the unique giftings He had placed and purposed within each of them. God met me in that broken place. |
A little about me...Hi, I'm Katie! Wife to Craig, mom of three, author, writer, Rooted Moms founder, Jesus-follower, Bible teacher, and coffee enthusiast. Follow me as I follow Christ and share my heart throughout the journey. Archives
December 2022
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